


Mycroft Always Wears Suits

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anorexia, Eating Disorders, F/M, Gen, Low Self-Esteem, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Molestation, Mycroft's Umbrella, Phobia, Rape, Rape Recovery, Sherlock is a good brother, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10766994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: Mycroft Always Wears Suits. There are many reasons why that simple fact had become a facet of reality which, if broken, could destroy carefully built things.Alternatively, every reason why Mycroft chooses to be dapper 100% of the time.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay people, here's the deal:  
> 1)This is a completed work.  
> 2) Including the Prologue and Epilogue, there are ten chapters (22 pages in all on Google Docs).  
> 3) Updates will be once a week until the story is over.  
> 4) Most of the dark shit takes place in chapters 2-5. If you don't want to read that stuff, I'll leave a summary down at the bottom, but there are things that happen there which get referred back to. When that happens, there will be notes at the bottom of later chapters to explain.  
> 5) Please let me know what you think.

If you google “what makes a funny joke?”, you will find that, while the internet will bring you infinite answers for “what makes a joke” or “how do you structure a joke”, the original question is a bit harder to answer. The internet will tell you why people laugh (shock value and irony). The internet will tell you what to use as a guide for jokesters, but it cannot, with any degree of certainty, tell you what makes a funny joke. 

It’s humor, not a cake. The recipe is not exact, and what worked today may not work tomorrow.

If the internet does not have a finite answer, and Mycroft does not have a finite answer, and the subject at hand is not a closely guarded secret, then no one knows. The closest you’ll ever get to pinning down the “Funny” in “funny joke” is by analyzing everything else around it and using it as a rough guide to an ever changing path.

A joke, as you may know, is made up of three parts. 


	2. The Setup Provides the Background

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

Mycroft was a fat child. There was no way around it. He liked cake and he liked candy and he liked pop and no one thought he ought not eat so much of it because everything else about him was flawless. He did not lisp and he did not stutter. He did not gossip and he did not interrupt. He knew all of the answers in school and out of it but he only impressed them upon everyone else to the point that he was simply Smart. 

Smart, by the way, is where it’s at.

The adults didn’t treat him as dumb as the rest (though the child part of that often draws mild condescension), but they didn’t see him as a threat, either. Mycroft only said enough to be Smart for a Boy, and was rewarded as such.

So if he needed to come off the sugar a lot more than he did, it was okay.

The first time he lost weight was quite by accident, and that was when Euros started singing that infernal song. It was the summertime, and Sherlock never shut up with his crying and his little heart was breaking and Mycroft was the older brother and Older Brothers Fix Things so he took his not-so-narrow behind outside and tramped all over the grounds of his mum and his dad’s house looking for Victor Trevor, the nonsense lyrics stuck in his head.

Even when it was clear that Victor was dead and Sherlock was quiet and sullen and withdrawn, he looked. He would go out in the morning after breakfast (often a large but healthy one) and search and search and search all day, lunch (no sweets. They gave him indigestion with all this work) in his bag, water bottle in his hand. The summer rolled on and the pounds fell away and somewhere out there Victor’s corpse rotted.

The season drew to a close and Mycroft needed all new clothes because he was only chubby now (the cute sort of chubby, mind you) and people would see him again for the first time in four and a half months (they had taken a break from school that year, citing a family incident) and even his pants didn’t fit anymore because he had stretched out the elastic. 

The morning of the first day back to school Mycroft looked at himself in the mirror, all tanned skin and dark freckles and freshly trimmed hair. He decided that he would see if he couldn’t be as thin as the others in his grade. It would take care of the jokes. So he went to school and did work and when it was recess he ran around (he didn’t lag anywhere near as much as he had before).

When he got home, he did his homework, laid out his clothes for the next day, and went searching some more. Sherlock was with him that time.

By the time Eurus set that fire in the middle of the school year everyone had quite forgotten that Mycroft had ever been large, though they had once made fun of him viciously for it. Children had barbed mouths and short memories.

When the next year rolled around and even Mycroft had stopped the looking (you’re reminding Sherlock, Mycie), he had seen all his relatives for Christmas and what not, and they’d all (every. Single. One) commented in some way or another on how good he looked. That was the first time he was self conscious. It was the last time he ever considered indulging himself. Even on his birthday, his slice of chocolate cake was thin and modest. 

When Mycroft was thirteen, he was in need of something to focus himself with, and had taken quite swimmingly to playing the grand piano in the guest living room. Challenging compositions could be heard just before homework and about an hour from when a guest was due to show. (When he was entertaining the pieces were always slower, more moderate. Unintimidating. People disliked being reminded of what they can never hope to do.) He cut such a striking figure, sitting all slim and grown up in his new fitted black suit and light grey vest and tie, his family said.

The reminder was always there in the background of what he looked like before. Even the ease of showering or running (he had, by that time, taken to running track) reminded him and laughed at his continual wish to just take one more bite. (It’s just self control. God knows you could use it.)

At sixteen, he was worried about his appearance, and it wasn’t because of vanity. It was deep rooted and it haunted him. He was slim and strong and he ran hurdles and was a fair hand at poker, tap- and ballroom-dancing, fencing and, of course, the piano, among other things. Those are the ones people got interested in. His dedication to perfecting his skills had spread to the rest of his life. Or maybe it was already there, in the background, just waiting.

Either way, he was considered Perfect. Perfect enough to date, in fact. His first girlfriend was an extremely quiet girl with whom he shared a common interest in cards. They spent all their time playing. Blackjack. Twenty one. 5 and 7 card sweat. Spades. Poker, of course. They bought chips to bet with (they’d originally considered candy, but Mycroft didn’t eat it anymore).

They never had sex, firstly because she was concerned with being a whore so she wanted to wait, and secondly because Mycroft wasn’t interested. But eventually they casually mentioned that they did screw and they were serious because neither of them was really wanted those things but they were expected and it was easier to have an ample excuse to spend time with a fellow card shark. 

The girls passed on Mycroft, and the boys passed on Jeannie.

When he moved from year ten to year eleven, Jeannie found someone she really wanted to date. The “break up” was painless. The friendship remained. He didn’t really like girls anyways. It was just the Perfect thing. By then, Mycroft had been off the market so long that most girls didn’t bother, thinking him heart broken or some such nonsense. The ones that went for him didn’t really like how smart he really was. 

Not since he’d first heard How Good He Looked had he dared be seen without a well picked outfit. One day he took a walk. He didn’t like to appear so bookish that people considered him a nerd, but nor did he like people. So a walk it was.

He went into a bookstore to see if he couldn’t find something for Sherlock (whom he had stopped reminding). He stepped out with a copy of The Complete History of All Comic Book Characters Everywhere and Ever (Sherlock loved, above all other things, information, and he liked to find trends and patterns in the things he sees, so books like this often fascinated him. Additionally, he liked to collect, when he wasn’t getting into trouble.). The sun was, for once, out. There were more passersby than normal. But that was okay. As he turned onto a side street, headed for his favorite hole-in-the-wall cafe that served delicious tea, a van pulled up behind him. He ran, but he should have started sooner.


	3. The Punchline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft wakes up.  
> Chapter warnings: torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's update day again, so thank you for all the views and likes and comments and please keep them coming :).  
> As promised, check the end of the chapter if the content is too much for you.

He woke up in a room with no windows and lifeless air. There was a small vent in the ceiling where he could hear air moving through, bare concrete block walls, and metal bar near the top of the room, to which he guessed a chain was attached to. The chain ran all the way down the wall to pool behind him and connected to a wide leather-feeling band. It was quite long. Not quite long enough. He did not know where the door was. Nor could he see. His hands were bound behind him but, aside from the ache of laying on the uncomfortable floor, he was not injured. It was cold. He was wearing what felt like his track clothes- shorts and a teeshirt. His head ached (sometimes it ached for days, when he was quite stressed and could not play the piano, which had been the case over every christmas since he was 13).

He could not find the door. Not enough room. Slowly, the events of that afternoon (he was not sure, nor would he ever be, if it was still that same day) came back to him. Slowly, the hollow little ball in the pit of his stomach began to grow larger and fill with black ichor. He’d been kidnapped. 

(Get it together, Mycroft. You’re a Holmes, for god’s sake. Act like it!)

There was naught to do but sit there. 

Sit he did, occasionally working his way up onto his feet to walk around as the chill and the stillness pervaded his muscles. He did not make a sound. He should save his strength; drawn all resources to him and held them there until he absolutely must show his hand. This was cards, and at least a few of his had already been seen.

So he kept his blood flowing and tried not to be too cold and counted to keep the time.

5 hours, 21 minutes, and 42 seconds later, the door opened. At this point, Mycroft was sitting. He twisted his blind face to get a “look” at the newcomer.

“Good. You’re awake. How do you like your stay so far?” the stranger said with a chuckle. Mycroft heard him moving, heard a machine, and then the chain began to grow shorter. He struggled to move back with it, pushing himself on his ass across the hard rubber floor until his head hit the wall. It didn’t stop. 

He struggled to his feet. By the time the machine powered down, the leather collar pressed against his windpipe and he was balanced on his tip toes. His hands were still behind his back. 

“You’re quite the specimen, really. Track has done you many favors,” he feels a hand on his thigh and kicks. It shifts his weight and chokes him. He feels a force on his stomach and immediately tries to lean forward. It chokes him some more.

“No kicking.” He grits his teeth and gets his feet back under him, feeling the pain spread and soften like the ripples of a heavy stone. He feels the hand again. He kicks again. He chokes again. He’s hit again. This time a new punishment is added: his head slams back against he wall, the laces of the mask pressing into his skull. He closes his eyes, gasping through airways not fully opened, aching and exhausted already.

It happens one more time and he gets all the same punishments before another slap across the face has him seeing stars. By the time he comes back to himself, his feet are tied together with something rough and he feels high off the lack of oxygen. He can’t kick now. Not unless he uses both feet. 

Mycroft feels the hand again. He’s stiff. It moves up a bit- not much, but enough to tell Mycroft where this could go. Then it leaves. 

“Have a nice night.” Heavy boots retreat and the door slams shut. 

It took him six hours to return. During that time Mycroft grew numb with fear and with pain. A man he didn’t know touched his thigh and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. In the morning, Mycroft seemed to get another chance. 

The man brought food- a tasteless mush- and a small metal spoon. He tried to feed it to Mycroft, but the boy’s stomach was just too tight. He couldn’t eat. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t even stop moving- his hands were constantly shaking and his legs had tremors in them, as did his stomach no matter how hard he tried to still it. 

He was kidnapped and lost and at the mercy of a man he’s never met and who will hurt him for saying no. Sherlock would be worried. He would shut down like he did after Victor died. His parents would have him searched for but he doubted they’ll find him. This man was too good. To top it all off, Mycroft could not hold it in all night and there’s piss in his shorts.

If he wanted to, he could keep Mycroft like this forever.

That seems to do the eldest Holmes child in. He was well versed in stormy social seas. He could control a room from his desk or from the bannister or the piano. He could make someone spill their life story without ever questioning his intentions in hearing it.

But he was not prepared for this. 

His mouth tasted terrible. There was mush on his chin. There were tears in his eyes. They built up as he tried and failed to take a second mouthful of mush and could not force his throat to close around it. Snot gathered in his nose. He tried to keep that from making an even bigger mess of his face and wound up choking. He had to keep his head back to clear his throat.

“Oh, baby boy,” he heard someone mutter. He heard a clink. Napkins and a wet cloth ran over his face and part of his chest, cleaning him. 

“Shhh, shh. It’s going to be alright,” the man murmured as his hand again landed on Mycroft’s thigh just below his track shorts. He doesn’t even twitch. He heard the machine, the rub of the chain over the bar (apparently it’s not attached after all, merely draped over it.) and felt the slackening of his bonds. He swayed as he waited for there to be enough give. 

Then he fell, knees hitting the hard rubber floor. His legs were so numb he didn’t feel it. His shoulder brushed the leg of his captor. He did not even flinch

“Good boy.” Without a word, his captor moved back. Mycroft slumped forward until he laid on the ground, forehead feeling the indentations on the floor and the smell of long-staining urine strong in his nose. He did not stop crying.

The man gave him a minute, then, when it was clear Mycroft would not be moving unless forced to, tightened the chain to make him kneel. He kept his back straight and his head tilted up as Mycroft was forced to eat the slop.

When the bowl was gone and his stomach this close to rebelling, the man stood, and Mycroft felt the brush of something very distinct against his jaw. He didn’t flinch. He was too tired. The man, at the door, loosened the chain.

“Sweet dreams, baby boy.”

The boy fell into a deep sleep, head on the floor, hands behind his back, shivering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft wakes up to find himself blindfolded, wearing a track outfit, handcuffed, and collared. The collar is attached to a chain which is on a motor at the top of the wall. When Mycroft refuses to let the man touch him he tightens the chain so that Mycroft must stand there on his tip toes all night after hitting him in the stomach twice and across the face once.  
> When he comes back and attempts to feed Mycroft, Mycroft is exhausted and breaks down and cries, which is when the man take pity on him. Mycroft has also wet himself in the night. He loosens the chain and leaves Mycroft there for another six hours.


	4. Usually Has

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of Mycroft's capture. He is allowed out of the room, and learns a few valuable lessons. Warnings for: eating shit, violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part two of the nastier stuff, so skip to the end for the summary if it gets too much. Other than that, please let me know what you think. I've never written something quite like this before.

The cycle continued like that for quite some time. The man would come and he would feed Mycroft by hand. He would do something- maybe set his hand a little higher than last time or he would brush that thing in its cloth against Mycroft’s chin and, later, lips-  and if Mycroft just took it he would be allowed to sit or lay down. If he didn’t, he would stand against the wall on his tip toes for hours to “learn a valuable lesson”.

Mycroft went numb.

There was no bathroom or toilet and he was not given the use of his hands or even the proper use of his feet, so Mycroft would wait as long as he could and then crawl on knees and chest as far to the left as he could, roll himself up on the wall and pull his shorts (no pants) down over his bum to shit. Then he would pull the rayon up, make his slow, inching way back over to where he normally sits (directly under the machine in case he has to stand again, and dwell in burning shame over the fact that not only is he dumping a load in the same room he sleeps in, but he was doing it with no toilet or toilet paper and it stinks and, maybe worst of all, he was getting better at it. The man wore a mask now whenever he came to feed him.

His ankles were sorely chafed, as were his wrists and neck, he constantly had a headache and the chills. He thought he might die soon, because he was hot and cold and when the man came to visit on this particular day Mycroft could not raise his head. He had shit his pants because he could not lift himself. He’d lost a lot of muscle mass. Mycroft weighed, at the start 160lbs. He had lost most of the extra weight in muscle mass and was now about 140.

“Oh, baby boy, why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” a hand ran over his hip. He was just grateful it didn’t grab him like it did that one time when the weight loss started to get noticeable. He no longer possessed the faculties to control himself, and a whine worked its way up out of his sorely misused and abused throat. 

“Do you want to leave?” the man asked. He waited. Mycroft made the same noise again.

“You have to tell me. Do you want to leave?” The hand had travelled higher, to safer territories than his shit and piss stained pants, though his shirt smelled no better with the spoiled sweat.

He opened his mouth, and it hurt to do, even more so when he said, cracked and dry:

“Yes.”

“Yes what, baby boy?” the man asked.

“Please.” He heard a clink, and then the chain was being moved. He was dragged, unceremoniously, from the room, down a hallway (left. Remember that) and into another place (left again). The chain was attached to something and then the man disappeared. Mycroft did not get up. 

He was so exhausted and dead in the mind that not a single plan formed in his head when rubber-gloved hands stripped away the rope from around his ankles and unlaced the head mask and wrist cuffs and collar. He did not protest when his shorts and shirt were slid away from him and he was picked up and placed on a slab of metal. He groaned at the coldness of the water that washed away all the shit and the piss and the sweat and tears. He groaned as it power-blasted against skin made sensitive over these past weeks. It hurt and it was cold, especially on his face. One by one, his limbs were moved to access nooks and crannies, and, aside from the occasional tremor, Mycroft let it happen. He screamed a bit- raw and ragged and choked- when his cheek was pulled up so the spray could get at his ass crack and when the water blasted his dick and balls.

“Problem, baby boy?” Mycroft shook his head no. The spray came back on. It seemed to be held a little closer directly over his anus.

Eventually the actual feces and sweat and green mucus and tears were gone. Then he felt those same arms pick him up bridal style and move him across the room. He was surprised enough to squeak when he felt warm water on his bum as he was gently lowered down into a real bath.

He kept quiet through the rag. It ever so gently rubbed soap- real soap- over his whole body and he groaned at the gentle rinsing and occasional stroke along the skin for inspection and cleansing. He still had not opened his eyes. He lost it when the hands settled on his hair and ever so carefully lathered shampoo into his hair.

He cried over it and it built into real bawling like a… like a baby boy might do. 

Eventually, he managed to reign himself in and lay, still hot-cold and exhausted, half supported by the tub and with his upper back against a rubber/plastic-clad chest. He was taken out of the tub and dried off, with special attention paid to every little bit of him, and, when not a bit of water remained, moved to yet another room (left, not right). He was laid down on something soft. It felt like heaven. He knew this was hell. But he couldn’t process that. Not when he sat, naked, on the edge of the bed as lotion was rubbed into his wrists and ankles and neck. His forehead leaned against a shoulder. He did not open his eyes.

Not until he’d been lain back, arranged, tucked in and given something for the fever. Not until the lights shut off did he find the bravery to see what had brought him here. His eyes settled on the broad back of the biggest man Mycroft had ever seen.

Something that had long broken in him disintegrated, because there was no way he’d be able to overpower someone of that size.

“Sleep well, baby boy,” that baritone voice ordered. Mycroft closed his eyes. He could deal with it all later.

When he woke up, fever back in full swing, the man was there and, with plenty of gentle petting, he was given more medicine and drifted off again.

When he woke up, better, but stinky again, the man was there, again washing him everywhere, first painfully with the power wash, then gently in the tub. Mycroft could not walk.

When he woke up, hungry, the man was there with that mush. Mycroft was afraid to eat. What if he needed to use the bathroom? The man seemed to read his mind.

“There is a toilet.” He ate. 

There seemed to be a new rule. Mycroft got everything needed to live, but he wasn’t allowed to walk. He could not mess with his pants at all, either; bathroom and showers meant the man had to help. To hammer the point home, a brace was wrapped around his calves, making it hard to stand and impossible to move. If he needed to go somewhere, the man usually carried him. Mycroft learned that he liked it best when he wrapped his thinning arms around broad shoulders and rested his head against a bicep.

The man did what he wanted, and no objection from Mycroft- none at all, was tolerated. The punishment for such a thing was severe. 

Once, when he had drifted out on the tides of his own mind, the man had put a hand on his shoulder. Mycroft jumped. Hard. he was slapped out of the chair he was sitting in. The man left and came back in a bit, chain for Mycroft’s leather collar in hand. The boy was leashed and dragged too quickly down the hall to the room Mycroft had originally woken up in. 

Inside, the man had shovelled all the shit into one big pile. Flies buzzed everywhere. It was monstrous and scary and Mycroft wanted then more than at any other point, to die. 

“Eat.” the man said. Mycroft could not breathe. He turned to look up at the man, questioning, disbelieving, hoping it wasn’t so.

“Eat until I tell you to stop. Or you’ll eat until it’s all gone.” Mycroft was in another pair of shorts and tee shirt. He knew the man meant it. He told himself it didn’t matter. These were not nice clothes (but they were the only pair he’d been granted) he reached out and picked off the nearest piece. Without thinking about it, he pushed it into his mouth and flinched hard at the taste.

He could taste the bitter bile used to break down food, along with cheesy hints. He gagged. Paused. Mustered. Swallowed. Then he did it again. And again, until he could not taste each new piece of shit and the near deafening buzzing of flies faded into the background and he could hardly feel them on his skin

He got through ten pieces.

“That’s enough.” He stopped and submitted to being dragged down the hallway.

“Don’t let your disgusting hands touch the ground.”

He was hit full in the face with the powerwash on the highest setting. He opened his mouth. It was moved directly in front of the open hole to batter the back of his throat and choke him. Even as he coughed and sputtered he did not dare move his face away.

Nor did he ever let himself drift again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, after some days of being forced to stay in the room and master the ability of moving along the wall to not shit in the same place he sits, is allowed out, where he's blasted by a powerwash (think of the sinks of a fast food resturaunt) then given a gentle bath. It breaks him and he cries over it.  
> When Mycroft flinches at the man's touch, he's forced to eat shit in punishment and he never does it again. He is not allowed to walk.


	5. A Butt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft confronts his existence. Warnings for: rape, stockholme syndrome, torture, starvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a summary at the end. As always, let me know what you think please.

The man liked to hear music, and he made Mycroft play for him. Sheets for compositions at leasty two hundred years old were given to him to study. Mistakes were punished, often by bruise-leaving slaps on the back and head. Mycroft still didn’t get enough food, and the muscles he lost were never regained. He was weak, forced to be meek, and sometimes his fingers grew too tired and he would receive a full beating for his carelessness.

One time, at around three in the morning (no clocks down there, but Mycroft guessed that this man had a day job to keep paying the bills here) he struck a note so sour that he flinched at himself. He was smacked so hard he flew and lay there, naked and dazed, on the carpet, staring off into space and waiting for the kick.

The man seemed to pause. Then he picked Mycroft up by one skinny arm and dragged him off. He was set on a bed- a new bed. One Mycroft did not sleep in or had ever seen. His knees were moved ever so gently apart. His thigh stung. His shoulder hurt. His arm and head were bruising. He did not move.

Since the beginning, Mycroft had been aware of the likelihood of this happening. That first touch on his thigh had felt like an invasion. The second a test. The rest history. The man touched him whenever and wherever he wanted. Sometimes he dressed Mycroft. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes his hand would skim across the top of his shoulders and sometimes it will do the same to his cock.

Mycroft was terrified of what was coming, but he did not dare to flinch. Not even when that massive hand was holding his prick and that bearded face was looking Mycroft dead in the eye. Not even when the fingers tightened slowly, ever so slowly, so that it was painful to stay still and all his muscles are stiff like they were when he was chained to the wall on the first night (he calls it night but he doesn’t know) he was awake. 

“Good baby boy,” he says, letting go. Mycroft knew better than to show immediate relief. He remained where he was, waiting. The man tooj his prick again. Pushed Mycroft to lay back. A kiss was pressed against his stomach, bristly hairs scratching him there. 

It’s better than the carpet.

Suddenly he’s turned over, a hand running over his diminishing ass for a moment before the brace is removed from his legs. The he’s pushed to balance with his knees and chest on the bed, bum in the air, hands by his head. A finger goes in dry. He grits his teeth and tries to relax. A second one joins it. He splits. Bleeds. It seems to make things a bit easier. Another is inserted so quickly Mycroft can’t stop the noise in his throat. 

The hand withdraws, and he’s powerwashed and then bathed gently.

As the months went by, they fell into a more complicated version of their rhythm. 

Mycroft rarely wore clothes anymore, and he did not bother to be concerned. If he’d been good- if he played things just right, if he sat just still enough, he’d be rewarded. Sometimes with a bit of flavoring in the food, but most often with books. It kept him sane, those books. He never let on that he’d read a lot of them (they’re classics. No taste of time passing for him) and that they helped him. They reminded him that he ought not be there, at that man’s mercy.

Mostly he forgot that (it was necessary). Mostly, he just strove to not just be Good, but be the Perfect Baby Boy. The best rewards came after things like being made to stand for eight hours or playing a new, challenging piece perfectly on the first try or being fucked. The latter often yielded the greatest bounty of them all. 

He got better at his role.

The rewards got fewer. 

He often received the brunt end of this man’s temper. The whips came out a few months after the sex started. The man would arrive, furious and smelling of outside, and he wouldn’t bother to change clothes like he did in the beginning. He would walk in the room and order Mycroft to get down. He would, bare bum pressed against his heels, hands on his thighs. 

The whip would whistle, and it would hit hard with no warm up. Mycroft would grit his teeth. The man told him he was allowed to make noises of dissent over this and over sex, as sometimes it got painful. He was grateful for the allowance but resolved not to use it as much as possible.

Sometimes he would undo the leg restraints so that Mycroft could spread his knees. He’d make sure the whip hit him on the nuts. Then Mycroft would scream.

Eventually, he started to look forward to the gentle parts. Started to tell himself that if he would just do it better this would be easier. That if he was more Good than this would end sooner. That euphoria would be on its way if he lasted all the way through because the man was in such a mood that Mycroft knew he would not be able to be conscious afterward. He would get a drug for it, and he’d be off to wonderland for the next eight hours or so. Sometimes, when he woke up, his ass would hurt, but he considered that small potatoes.

He loved those tender parts. He sometimes remembered that things were not meant to be this way but mostly he just looked forward to and worked on achieving those moments after sex when there was no powerwash- just the bath part. He looked forward to collapsing out of a pose he’d been forced to hold and waking up unable to move and the man would ever so gently massage all the aches and kinks out of him. He loved it and he knew he shouldn’t but he forgot and loved it anyways.

One day, Mycroft remembered a little too clearly. 

He remembered that it shouldn’t be like this, and he remembered being worried about Sherlock. He did not let on that he remembered- he had a gag in his mouth and a cock in his ass- but he remembered and resolved not to let that go even as it slid away at the wet feeling in his bum and the stutter of hips against him and the beard on his back.

He learned, later, that he had not been a very good fuck, because he was given something spicy and a lot of it so that his mouth burned for hours. But the man was not back after the maximum amount of time he’s ever been gone, and so Mycroft laboriously dragged himself out of bed and, left without the restraints on (the man had rushed out. There’s still ejaculate about his hole) explored this room he was never left in for long. He had noticed the dresser before hand, and knew that it was the man’s bedroom. He had noticed the books sitting on top of the furniture and found a key behind it .

He had forgotten how abnormal it all was, but part of him had remembered. He looked around and found that, at the very bottom of the tall, tall dresser, was a drawer with a hole in it. Some of Mycroft’s old self came back as he fit the key into the lock and turned. In the compartment was a loaded gun. One bullet in a six chambered revolver. His mind woke up as he popped open the slots to look inside. He put it back.

Struggled to his feet (his feet he never used).

The man had been feeding him less and less as of late because he wanted Mycroft to be more girly; slimmer, prettier, more Good. He was even lighter than normal at just over 100 lbs. He was like a starved pit bull with his rib cage out and the revolver in his hand.

“So you do have some fight in you,” the man said from the doorway. Mycroft turned around to see the man, bigger than ever, staring at him fondly. He said nothing.

“You going to fire that, baby boy?” no sound.

“Answer me.”

“I don’t know.” he really didn’t. There was one bullet in the chamber. Mycroft can kill either himself or the man (whose name he still didn’t know). If he killed himself, that would be the end of it. If he killed the man, he has no way of escape and he’s already weak. If he killed neither he would wish he was dead and he would very likely to not get a second chance.

And he loved the man.

Loved the gentleness he could have, even as he was hurting Mycroft.

The boy thought the man might love him, too.

Tears gathered and fell down over his sallow cheeks to collect along his too sharp jaw. His hands shook as he aimed the gun at the man, warning him not to come closer. Time stood still at the greatest and worse impasse of Mycroft's short life. The boy was playing Russian Roulette. He dies, or the man does, or he gets to see what the next few levels of torture look like.

“Baby boy…” the man said, “put the gun down. I’ll make you a deal: give it to me, and we’ll pretend like this never happened. No punishment. No anger. Okay?” Mycroft wanted to give in and stay there forever. He wanted to just pretend like he never ever took the key. He wanted…

And he was stupid. 

He knew what it was

He knew what he was tempting right then.

His hands were shaking so bad he almost dropped the gun, but the old him that showed up for just a bit wouldn’t let him. He squeezed his hands tighter and his brows drew down lower over pale blue eyes, clear for the first time in over a year.

“Bab-” before he can finish the word, Mycroft squeezed the trigger, the gun went off, and the man dropped dead, a bullet exploded out the back of his head. Mycroft felt himself numb, because he was free and trapped, and doomed to die of starvation.

He sighed, free to vocalize for the first time in who knows how long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the man decides to start fucking mycroft, who is obliged to just take it. Mycroft developes stockholme syndrome and is very much in love with the man. At the end of the chapter, the man decides to test this love and leaves Mycroft with the means to kill him via hiding a key that goes to a drawer in a dresser with a six-chamber revolver with one bullet. As the man overestimated his control of Mycroft, he winds up being shot in the head. Along the way Mycroft's need to be Good gets stronger.


	6. The Taglines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They find Mycroft (the scary part is over; no summary at the bottom)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I'm sorry this isn't up when I said it would be. I graduated high school Saturday, and I was having every malfunction possible beforehand. On the upside, there will be a shorter wait time between this update and the next *wink*. Let me know what you guys think, okay?

Mycroft found the door but could not get through to either outside or the place with the food without being the man. He could not drag the body- it was too heavy, and he too weak- and he could not cut off a limb- no knives, and only one gun. All the man’s toys were locked up and required the some keycode and, from the looks of it, a thumbprint. 

So he was resigned to wait. He made his way back to the piano and played every piece he ever wanted to play when he was down here, alone and scared and in love and in death. He played complicated fingerings that he did perfectly because he loved what he played more and in a pure way. It was much different than the strange and twisted love he had for the man.

He played till his hands cramped and he could not see straight. Then he dragged himself out of the room with the piano and limped along the wall to the right, towards the Room With the Shit. He didn’t even pause. He was not scared of the place anymore (or at least, he told himself that) because the man was dead and no one else could make him eat his own excrement. He had never been to the right of the room, and only once he had gone in this direction had he found all the doors where the man kept the supplies.

He settled next to the bunker door and waited.

The man was usually clean, and Mycroft doubted he power-washed himself or took baths in the same place he bathed Mycroft all those hundreds of times, which meant he likely had another place he lived in. Another place he disappeared to, where he kept up a normal life and a normal job.

He was a big man and hard to miss, and he’d likely never left the bunker all those hours ago. He was interested in seeing what Mycroft would do. So someone must notice him missing soon enough. Someone must come after the strange man who kidnapped Mycroft all those months ago.

The boy sensed the man was charming when he wanted to be. He likely had a perfect front in order to avoid any sort of suspicion. Someone would notice. Someone would care. Someone would look. With a bit of luck, someone might just find.

It took them three days to find the door, and another four hours to break inside. Mycroft had the sense to drag himself well back (his legs had stopped working again) from the entrance to watch and wait for the proceedings to make an appearance to match all that sound.

They opened the door, finally, and Mycroft did not flinch at the law enforcement that flooded the place. He opened his mouth and worked up the strength to tell them where the body was at, and to not go in the second room on the left.

Then, he fell silent as he heard commands said into walkie talkies and medical personnel surrounded him. He started to scream when it all got to much.

It was all over the news (which they would not let him see, which is how he knew it was there, waiting for him). Holmes Boy Found Starving In Bunker. Return of Lost Son. Former Promising Track Student Returned Home. All these he got a hold of later, when they couldn’t justify keeping him away from a computer. 

He woke up after a 26 hour sleep with an IV in his arm and the dim hospital night light all that illuminated anything. The lights were never off in the bunker, and they bleached everything. He closed his eyes again.

When he next woke up a nurse was just entering the room. She checked his vitals, asked him how he was doing. He hardly answered, but he was sitting up in bed and he wasn’t panicking just yet even though he was in a strange place and the man was dead, so she let in a man and a woman in dark suits and sensible shoes.

They asked him questions. He answered them stiffly and in little detail. They wanted to know what it was like. They had to read it on his body.

Eventually they sent him home with a wheelchair, a therapist, and the promise of more visits from the man and the woman. When he was loaded into the car (picked up, and he thought he might hate that now), Sherlock was there. He was starting to lose his baby face. He sat quietly next to Mycroft and refused to move from his side.

Not when they had to get him out of the car.

Not when they settled him into his bed.

Not when he was brought the drink they’d been given to make sure he didn’t have to eat too much but would still get what he needed to gain the weight back (weight is so ugly, Mycroft. You ought to lose it). Sherlock had school, of course, but he did his homework next to Mycroft’s bed.

Sherlock didn’t try to touch, for which Mycroft was grateful. He hated to be touched when he was so vulnerable. His baby brother was merely there; a solid 12 year old presence  

He needed a cane on one side and a person on the other to walk, when he first started that. It was usually Sherlock. His younger brother scared him sometimes, the way he would watch and his eyes would burn like fire but he wouldn’t say a thing. It didn’t matter what was happening, he rarely spoke and even more rarely did he entertain people. Not even mum. 

Mycroft knew something happened, watching those silver eyes and fading baby face.

Something told him it was his fault. That this could have all been avoided. They never would have moved to the city if he had found Victor. They never would have come here if he had connected with Eurus and saved her from the loneliness that befell all Holmes children. He failed, and part of the reason he failed was because he was a fat child, unable to keep up with his younger sister’s energy, and there was no way around it.

As his weight rose and the space between his hips filled in and his rib cage and spine got less prominent, he started to worry. He wanted to walk and run again, but he did not want the things that were softening to disappear entirely.

He didn’t need another person to walk anymore; just a cane. It bothered him, the cane. Even when he could leave it in his room for the short walks to the sitting room with the grand piano to play arias, he took it with him. He was afraid to fall. He didn’t want to fall again. He couldn’t fall again. He was tired of being on his knees.

They tried to get details from him, the man and the woman. Their names were Liv Stannon and,  curiously enough, Blake Blakely, and they were kind, but persistent. They wanted to know who the man was to him, what he did, why he starved Mycroft. They wanted to know about the sex and about the Room With the Shit and about the powerwash and the bath tub. Mycroft kept it vague.

He knew they knew about most things from observation, so he kept his own answers as impersonal as possible. They said they wanted to help. He asked them why it mattered if the man was already dead. They said something- he didn’t hear it- and they said something else.

“I’m done for today,” he decided, and they left. He could make decisions, so long as it wasn’t the man whom they concerned. 

Sherlock came back. He had maths homework. He brought Mycroft a book on current events. He snuck Mycroft his phone so his older brother could look at the news. He was coming back to himself, mind accelerating, muscles forming with just enough fat to be healthy. He was edging closer to something human.

109 pounds of solid muscle and sinew. 115. 121. 125. 129. 135. 140.144.

He could walk again, but he had taken to carrying an umbrella with him. He didn’t like water, anymore. His chest was always tight, and his head always hurt, and people stopped him to ask questions and get excited over a real live victim and what not.

But the dead look never left his eyes, and the fire never left Sherlock’s.


	7. Refer Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft goes to Uni. Sherlock goes to ground. They both pick up a bad habit or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One reference at the end guys.

He got into uni with no problems. While he was there, he lived on his own and he didn’t go to parties because the closeness and the noise scared him and made it extremely hard to concentrate and Mycroft always. Had. To. Concentrate.

He remet Jeannie. They tried to be friends, but he was too different. To quiet. He hadn’t played cards in about two years, and she’d used her gap year to travel around to all the poker dens with her new best friend, Marco, who disliked the extent of Mycroft’s knowledge. He knew when he was a problem. He let it go.

Mycroft couldn’t ask her to make what was be so again. 

His therapist, whom he saw once a week until he moved away again, never got anywhere with Mycroft. Now he was on his own, and she didn’t have to. He found that weed was the best thing for his nerves. 

He got into a cycle of school-work-weed and stayed there. It was hard to tell he was a pothead. Four months before he began work in the government, he smoked his last blunt and started flushing it out of his system. He told himself it was just a precaution.

It was just weed.

It wasn’t anything dangerous. 

He didn’t need something stronger.

The only one who even knew he was doing that was Sherlock. He never told. Just like Mycroft never mentioned that he thought Sherlock was dangerously perceptive, and that he might do something drastic, if he felt like it. There was a problem, but Mycroft let it go. If he didn’t get better on his own, he wouldn’t at all. An institution would kill a mind like that.

He lost a little weight in uni (never to the point that he couldn’t run) and he saw it as an improvement. No one liked Fat Mycroft. They liked him now- slim and tall and wonderfully attentive but mysteriously quiet. He never dressed in anything less than business casual. He never wore shorts. His undershirts were never of the tee variety. Even if the cut was the same, it was made out of dri-fit, never cotton.

What friends he had (which was few, though he had acquaintances from there to the moon) were heavy into the weed too. Their minds were too fast for them. They had a silent bond over that. Even then, when he was deep in the ganja and light in the mind, he never wore less than nice jeans and a button down. 

He graduated in two and a half years with a double master’s in business and law.

He traded his job as a minor accountant in a major business to a major business partner in said business. He handled money. A lot of it. By the time he was twenty five, he was paying half a million dollars in taxes every year. No one, not even his mum, knew the extent of his fortunes. 

He never forgot how much he weighed. 

When he was deep in the Work- yes, it was the Work, to him- he forgot to eat. His ribcage was visible. His clothes hid it well. He never left the umbrella.

He never forgot how much he weighed, but how much he did not weigh always managed to escape him. He told himself it was an accident. He told himself it was intentional. If he had been like this- sharp but quiet, slim but not weak- when The Man (he knew his name by then, but couldn’t use it) had him, he would not have had quite the temper. And the kicking. That was Bad of him, too. 

When Sherlock was fifteen he disappeared for the first time. Mycroft was twenty two, just a month after graduation. He searched and he searched but Sherlock had dozens of hidey-holes in London and Mycroft was no where near prepared to walk through places like the one he’d been taken from. When he came back, it was of his own free will. 

The last time Mycroft had seen him, he seemed sad and distracted. His sharpness had returned when he knocked on the door to Mycroft’s London flat, wearing casual clothes and toting a backpack. Mycroft immediately knew he’d done something- maybe something terrible- but he would not speak of it. They sat at the dining room table across from each other and drank tea. 

“You stopped eating,” Sherlock said, perceptive as ever. Mycroft tilted his head.

“That many layers, Sherlock? In this whether? One would think you’re hiding from the wind.” They fell silent. Mycroft knew it was his job to stop whatever Sherlock was doing, but he doubted he could. No, the best he could do was make sure to be there when his brother fell.

And he would fall. He was a Holmes. They’re problems were deep rooted, their roads rarely, if ever, walked, and their demons tenacious and malevolent. Mycroft didn’t want to eat.

He was starving. 

Later, it was much more clear, what Sherlock had done. By then Mycroft had to hunt him down and keep track of him in case he overdosed. By then he was a promising up and coming lad who just wanted his baby brother to be alright. By then Sherlock was the way he would remain for years, and he’d stopped mentioning his lack of eating. 

By then Mycroft had passed out in his own home from a lack of food and was forced to make a diet to keep him alive, which Sherlock was not hesitant in reminding him of. It wasn’t a barb, though it was disguised as such. Somewhere in his mind Sherlock did not want to see Mycroft dead.

It was hard to make himself eat. It would be harder if he didn’t. He constantly fluctuated between the two. 

He searched, when he wasn’t working. He hunted down all traces of Mr. Jacob Jeffrey Adams- The Man. First he looked religiously at every aspect of the one who had kidnapped him. He was a doomsday prepper and a freelance contractor, which was why no one was overly concerned with him owning a field outside of London with a bunker door hidden amongst the overgrown weeds. When he went missing, Adams’ friends pointed out his obsession, the detectives (Liv Stannon the chief one) were led right to the door.

Mycroft had a morbid fascination. He was deeply concerned with the life and times of the man. The one he killed. The one he hated. The one he loved. Once he had found and read of this or that, he destroyed it. All traces of his time in captivity must be disposed of.

Sherlock cottoned on at some point, and so things would arrive by “mail”, in that it was in his mail, not that Sherlock sent it that way. It would be some report. Some picture. Some article. When Mycroft checked back, he rarely, if ever, found that specific reference to his kidnapping to be traceable. No one must know. The strong and immovable Mycroft Holmes did not match up with his past. 

Later, when Mycroft was sifting through CCTV footage for Sherlock and, when he went to ground, his known associates, he hated himself for letting the problem go unchecked when he first noticed it. Fool man.

That’s not Good at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The no shorts-no-cotton-tshirts thing refers to what Mycroft wore while the man had him in his bunker.


	8. To The Laughs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft meets Uncle Rudy

When he was thirty, and Sherlock 23, Mycroft met, for the fourth time in his life, uncle Rudy. The first time was when he was four, and not yet fat. Just a mite chubby. He remembered, very vaguely, and in the fuzzy way old, unpreserved memories tended to be viewed, a very tall gentleman dressed in all black, with a nose that stuck out a bit too far. He seemed mildly threatening. Mycroft felt he was like a spider; not dangerous until the web is disturbed. He was sitting when Mycroft first saw him, and he seemed to take up all the space in the chair, though said chair was quite wide and he quite thin. 

His parents ushered him in, wearing one of those little toddler suits with the elastic waistband and clip tie, to stand between the two as they introduced him. At first, Uncle Rudy’s piercing, dark eyes did not even glance at him. Only when they had said that this was their son, Mycroft, did he deign to lower his stony, impassive gaze to the boy standing ever so well behaved between his parents.

“Hello,” he’d said. 

“How do you do?” Mycroft had answered, baby lisp just starting to slip away.

The second time was after the fire, when Sherlock was still dead in the eyes and soul. They’d moved temporarily into a house that one of the other family members owned. Mycroft was fully dressed (thank god for small mercies) and he held Sherlock as the younger boy gazed at the wall, lost in his head. His parents conversed quietly downstairs, and Mycroft held Sherlock in the rocking chair in the bedroom of a child they had never met. 

Old story books and toys were neatly put away. The bedspread was of some cartoon character from before their time. The walls were baby blue and fluffy cloud decals were near the roof. Above that, stuck to the ceiling, were old glow-in-the-dark stars.

He pushed the chair back gently with one loafer-ed foot. The cushion under his bum was thin. He could feel the rungs through his sweater. There was a knock. Sherlock’s eyes slid down further. Low voices could be heard in the entryway. Mycroft kept rocking.

The soft tones from downstairs rose and fell. Sherlock slept. They moved to the living room. Mycroft carefully laid Sherlock in his bed (he was six. Mycroft was thirteen) and pulled the covers up over him. He opened his eyes briefly as Mycroft backed away slowly.

“Mycie.”

“Sher?”

“I miss my dog.” The world fell away. Shifted. Settled.

“Me, too.” 

“Goodnight, Mycie.”

“Goodnight.” He shut the door with nary a click. He straightened his tie where it had become slightly skewed, ran a hand down his dark red cardigan, and descended the stairs to the living room, where he saw Uncle Rudy for the second time. There he was, thin and tall. There he was, cold and calculating. There he was, back in all black with the same slightly too big nose. And there Mycroft was, all grown up before he'd even hit puberty. 

He turned, and Mycroft realized that he had a limp. He didn’t let his eyes linger.

“Mycroft Holmes.” There was no one in the room but them.

“Yes, sir.”

“Take care.” he said. He limped away, cane making decisive knocks on the stone floor. Mycroft got the door.

The third time he met Uncle Rudy was just after his name and his face from before he'd gone missing was splashed all over the headlines. Mycroft laid in a hospital bed, eyes closed, chest barely moving, body barely existing. He did not open his eyes. Nor did he acknowledge the fact that another person with a very distinctive gait had entered the room.

He heard a sigh. He knew Uncle Rudy was getting older. The last time he had seen him, a bit of silver had been visible about the copper hairline. 

“Mycroft Holmes, alive again.” He opened his eyes, and made no attempt at hiding the fact that he had been awake.

“Uncle Rudy.”

“It’s good you remember, I suppose.” Mycroft said nothing, instead waiting in heavy silence for the problem or the news or the decision to be relayed.

“You need something, anything, come and see me.” Oh. 

“Okay,” he said, but he knew he wouldn’t do it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he understood that to partake of Rudy’s generosity was to owe him

Uncle Rudy left. Mycroft lay there for a couple weeks after, recovering, sleeping. Getting sick of eating.

This fourth time he met Uncle Rudy was directly after he paid his taxes the year they were just over one million. He was sitting at his desk, fully decked out in business clothing, punching numbers.

“Mr. Holmes,” his receptionist said, “There’s a Mr. Rudy Spec here to see you.” Mycroft paused, then saved his progress. He pressed the button.

“Send him up.”

Uncle Rudy made his stately way into the room and sat down in one of the cushy swivel chairs across from Mycroft’s desk. He held his cane in both his hands. Mycroft was under no illusions; if his Uncle needed to defend himself, that cane would be a weapon. 

Mycroft tilted his head.

“Good afternoon, Uncle Rudy.”

“Hello, nephew. Do you know of the family dynamics?” Oh, did he. 

“Yes.”

“Then you know what my role is.”

“Yes.”

“As you know, I have no sons, nor daughters, nor a spouse, and I am getting old.” That was true. It had been some years since the two had seen each other, and the slight silvering had spread over the rest of his hair. He had begun to lose said hair beginning from either temple, and it pushed towards the middle. He might just shave it off soon to avoid the unfortunate inverted skull-cap look that many an aging man adopted.

“Yes.”

“Then you know that someone must take my place, and, without an obvious heir, I’m left to choose one from among my younger relations.” Mycroft knew what was coming. He did not want it. 

“I’ve come to the conclusion that it must be you. Your brother is off trying to die somewhere in London, and even I cannot keep a constant eye on him.”

“Maybe that consistency is the problem.” Uncle Rudy gave him a look.

“In addition, your sister will require constant monitoring for the rest of her life, and I highly doubt her current residence will be able to keep control of her for very much longer. There are others besides you, of course. Rory is one of them. The problem with him, though, is that he’s just a touch heavy handed. I hand control to him, and it all goes to hell.” Mycroft nodded. There was nothing for it.

He would have to take up the request. He would have to be Good.

“Very well.” Uncle Rudy stood, nodded.

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Have a good day.” He limped to the door and turned back, handle gripped in his big, calloused hand.

“For god’s sake, boy. Eat something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing Uncle Rudy, so I'd really like to know what you think of him.


	9. Every Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Eurus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost late guys. Another hour and it would have been. Is this chapter realistic?

 

She really was a nightmare, his younger sister, and he was quite happy it was over. He was dead on his feet, and dead in his mind, and he was not at all well. He watched his mum storm out, and he knew he wasn’t ever going to be forgiven.

After Sherlock left, he did not eat dinner. He simply logged onto his computer, checked that nothing along the lines of world war three had been emailed or texted to him, and then he went home. The next day, he was on the phone with Russia’s secret service.

They said they were glad to see him well after his accident.

He thanked them. 

It had been fifteen years since he succeeded Uncle Rudy, and now he understood why the man had chosen to retire when he did instead of waiting for the work to do him in. When it was all said and done, he was the head of the family.

He made the hardest decisions.

He protected them all. 

Sometimes, though, that left Mycroft himself exposed, and there was not protection against that. It had to be done.

The DI had dropped by. He’s not sure why he thought of Gregory Lestrade when he did, but it happened anyways, and he chose to ruminate on it. It was better than the dead warden. It was better than his mum. It was better than the three brothers. It was better than hearing, over and over again, Sherlock say he loved Molly, and them both knowing he didn’t and that’s why it was so bad. While Sherlock cared deeply, he was a lot like Mycroft. He didn’t swing that way. 

Truly, Mycroft wished that Sherlock did like women. It would have made this business with John Watson much simpler. So much neater. The pathologist could have kept him on track. But no. He had to go running after the Doctor, who had his own growing to do.

_ Stop thinking about that. _

 

…

 

The DI dropped by after work. He pulled up in his beat up car and moved through security like he always had since Mycroft realized he could be trusted, specifically with Sherlock, and with everything else in general. 

They sat and took tea. It was hard. He didn’t finish the cup. Lestrade seemed to sense that he would get no farther that night and bid him farewell after a few more minutes. Mycroft let him go. No need to show him anything useful.

He kept thinking about John Jeffrey Jones. 

About how he owned that little bit of land out there with that fucked up bunker. It stayed unoccupied. They’d cleaned out the place, including all the shit in the room, which had dried up between when Mycroft had last been there and when the authorities arrived to find The Man.

Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headboard. 

He was too big again. The diet worked to well. He considered adjusting it. He fell asleep with the weight on his mind and the old grief in his heart.

This was precisely why caring is not an advantage.

 

…

 

A month later, Sherlock managed to track him down (he’d avoided the detective thus far, but had maintained a distant watch on him). He broke into the house at some point during the night and found Mycroft had fallen asleep at the table, a single, still full, cup of tea gone cold.

He had been trying to eat, but he wasn’t hungry. He never was these days. He never did this caring crap because this is what it did to him. 

“Brother.” He jerked awake and had his pistol out and aimed in just a moment. “Your hand is shaking.” He lowered the gun and flicked the safety back on.

“Why are you here?”

“Because I wanted to make sure you were okay. Which you are not.”

“I’m fine.”

“I also have unfortunate news.”

“What is it?”

“Mummy is gearing up for another shot at seeing Eurus.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That she would die trying. Whatever she’s going to say, it’s likely to be nasty.”

“You never cared before.”

“You know that’s not true.” Sherlock had drifted closer. Enough that he could grab Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft snatches his wrist back and stands.

“I think you’re better when you weigh more than me.” Mycroft swayed. Steadied. He could not meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“Fair enough.”

 

…

 

His mum sat in his office. Mycroft saved his work.

“When you went missing, we never stopped looking.” The world slows. “And we never gave up. And it never stopped hurting, thinking you were dead.” Her voice is breaking. Her tears are building up.

“The least you could do is let me see my daughter.”

“She is not what you remember her to be.”

“What is she, then? Is she like you?” That was a barb and Mycroft knew it. He did not flinch, face blank.

“No.”

“Then it can’t be that bad.” His heart twists a bit. His soul compresses. He doesn’t react.

“It can. I assure you, it can. She is all but comatose, and the last time she had visitors, she killed six people and intentionally forced Sherlock to break the heart of someone who loves him. If you think that another go-round is worth that, then there is nothing I can do for you.” She just looked at him.

“Why can’t you be good?” One of the few things she knew about Jones is that he had constantly wanted Mycroft to be Good. Had punished him when he wasn’t. Had raised the standards over time. Mycroft had never achieved Good. There was always something in his life that spoke to the opposite.

“Because I’m not built like that,” he says, voice low and made of steel. Whatever she meant to do by saying that, it wasn’t going to happen. She nodded, turned and rose. She walked to the door, held it like Uncle Rudy had in his old office, and said:

“Sometimes, I wish we’d never gotten you back.”

A week later, he was just home from a work related gala, all decked out in one of his best suits- a deep blue and cream pinstriped affair with a peak collar, matching button up and a tie the color of old gold that matched the chain, watch, buttons, and a single pin on the left lapel. He stood on the roof of his house, staring off into the charming collection of trees that bordered the far side of the back yard. It was a forest in miniature; well kept and just a little bit wild. No one would be watching him. 

A gentle breeze blew behind him, as if urging him to step over the edge of the platform he had put up here and out onto the pointed roof of one of the dormers and jump. His own mum wished he had died. All he wanted was to protect his family. He did as he was supposed to. He was Good for Rudy. But it had all gone so terribly wrong. He had a headache right then- a strong one that started behind his right eye and wrapped all the way around his skull. 

He edged down the sloping roof and tilted. Regained his balance. He’s careful not to smudge his cream shoes or nice suit. The tails of his coat waved gently in the breeze. A raindrop fell and splattered on the shingles in front of him. He looked down. 

From this height, the chances of survival were slim to none, and, with the guarantee that no one would be disturbing him, it would be impossible if he hit the ground head first. Mycroft could hear, just then, Uncle Rudy’s voice, when he had made it painfully clear what he was asking Mycroft to do.

_ “They won’t like you, when the things done for their good come to light. They’ll hate you, even. They’ll tell you to die. Wish the nastiest things would happen to you, and maybe you’ll want it to. But you can’t give in to them or yourself, nephew. When it is all said and done, what they want and what they need are two different things. They’ll lash out, but they would not have it any other way. Do you understand?” _ Mycroft had nodded. Of course he understood.

He looked at the ground.

_ You can’t give in to them or yourself _ . On some level, Mycroft felt the tug of war was going on between John Jeffrey Jones and Uncle Rudy, rather than himself. He had known for the longest time that he was a useless thing with a lot of money, after all. 

He looked at his shoes, expertly tied and peaking out from his trouser hems. There was more to be done. There were more problems to be fixed. Mycroft was currently the only one capable of taking Uncle Rudy’s place. He turned and made his careful way back. 

He was still needed, even if they abhorred him.

Hours later, Lestrade paid him a visit. To Mycroft, it was painfully clear what he’d almost done. Gregory, too, seemed to know subconsciously, at least. He was relentlessly gentle, and it hurt so bad to shut him out. Lestrade seemed to understand that saying it was okay would not be enough. He texted Sherlock, and his brother materialized, wearing jeans and a black cotton t-shirt and work boots, all of which were dusted in various “we’re rebuilding” particles. Mycroft could not hide a thing from his younger brother.

It hurt to have him know, but the hurt came from people long gone or far away from there. The hurt came from things not in this room but in Mycroft. Lestrade had convinced him that this could not go on, no matter how good he was at coping.

Sherlock tracked him down again the next evening, his manner not the sort Mycroft could expect from anyone else (which is to say, either cautious that Mycroft might try and succeed, or happy he could and would do so). He was simply there, and he seemed inordinately sad for someone who was an expert at not caring just a few years ago.

At Sherlock’s and John’s and Lestrade’s pushing, Mycroft delegated much of his responsibility to emergency stand-ins, whom he would monitor, and took a few weeks off work. He spent much of his time at his home, reading books he never had time to get to, and working on gaining weight.


	10. Without Fail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left! Let me know what you think:)

Sherlock showed up the day after that, too. John came with him, and Rosie, too, and they all just sort of… took up residence at the mansion. There were plenty of good reasons, of course. The flat is still a mess. The house feels strange. Mrs. Hudson isn’t there. They’ve no place for Rosie to play. If someone gets attacked it would be good to know about it immediately. It all made sense, but Mycroft knew the real reason. No one said it, but it was there.

He wanted them to leave. He wanted them to stay.

One night, at eight, just as Mycroft locked the door to his study (it’s a precaution against himself, not his guests. If he could, he would go all night so that when he slept he was too exhausted to dream), he thought of Uncle Rudy again. He had big hands with calluses. Those were work hands. He walked with a cane. He must keep some sort of labor intensive hobby that does not require moving much. 

Mycroft looked at his own hands. Slight calluses on the fingertips from the keys of a piano or a keyboard. Wear spots from where he held a pen or gripped the handle of his umbrella. Thin hands. Strong hands. Not work hands. He wanted to do work.

Not computer work. Not politics work. 

For the first time in a long time, he wanted to move his body, not his mind. He wanted to feel the burn of building muscles. The looseness of them post activity. It wasn’t weight he was thinking about. He had once admired  Uncle Rudy’s hands. He wondered when he forgot that. He went downstairs, to the back of the house, and changed in a small locker room capable of hosting ten people’s things (at the most. Mycroft didn’t know why he had it built so large. No one liked him. No one would consent to stay here with him, nevermind peruse this particular place).

But he did have it, and in one of the lockers he had left a set of workout clothing. He put them on and replaced it with his suit folded neatly and resting on top of his shoes. From the gear room next door, he selected a small sword, complete with a sheath and belt, and put it on.

He dragged out the roll-up mat and set it up at the far end of the gymnasium. He stood still for a moment, then drew his sword and began. He went slow, mind wandering and then settling as he did footwork.

He feinted. Jabbed. Dodged. Retreated. Advanced. His breathing got heavier. His muscles got looser. His speed picked up and his thoughts slowed down, pigeon holed in. Focus. He was a good fencer, but even better with an actual sword. 

He’d started to grunt on the lunges, imaginary opponent lending him stamina and will.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, coming to a halt as though someone had been impaled on the end of his blade.

“I didn’t know you knew how to use a sword.” Gregory said from where he watched. Mycroft jumped, whirled, and took up position.

“Whoa,” the intruder breathed, holding up his hands.

“Gregory.” Mycroft acknowledged (or noticed).

“Can you teach me?”

That night, when he stepped out of the shower, Mycroft didn’t think as much as he normally did about his weight. He thought more about Gregory, how, even though he was a beginner, he was game for whatever Mycroft had in mind. He knew the other’s muscles must have been burning by the end of it, and admired his sticking it out all the more.

Gregory liked him.

Sherlock, at least, cared for him.

John tolerated him more than others. He seemed to have concluded that he and Sherlock were not so different after all.

His locker room could hold the things of ten people. There were four here, discounting Rosie. That’s three more than he ever thought would happen. Even Anthea didn’t stay like they did (though she kept a very close eye on her boss. Situations like this were highly likely to implode). 

His muscles burned. 

Sherlock burned.

Their home burned.

He could think of something else to add to that list.

Three days before Mycroft was due to return fully to work (between his proxies and his near constant availability, he’d never really left), Mycroft went to the underground garage, where a variety of cars stood at the ready. He selected a camaro and placed a tarp in the trunk and neatly loaded it with five large gas cans several gallons worth of water, and a shovel.

He wore all black, gold ring on his right hand. 

He drove until he had left London proper and traversed a main thoroughfare that led to other cities. Eventually, he merged off and drove along roads that were little more than deer tracks. He left the path behind entirely as he drove over a field of only-barely-taken-care-of weeds, where an old door lay disguised under dirt and the things that grew in it.

He took the shovel and broke up the vegetation. He’d had the door fixed. He collected a gas can and keyed in the new code. It’s eerie down here where the lights used to always be on. Now, there’s a switch. He’d had it upkept. He’d never been back here, except for once, when Sherlock went to see where they’d taken his older brother for over a year. He’d never made it past the track, simply called and pleaded for Sherlock to come back to the damn car, please.

They hadn’t spoken of it again. He goes to the very back of the complex where the room with the piano sat. He’ll start there. He made sure to douse every piece of furniture and the instrument itself before dripping a trail out of the door to the bedroom Mycroft was kept in when he wasn’t with . He got another can.

He made his way to each of his old terrors and made sure to get oil on it all. The bathroom. The kitchen and pantry he never saw. The security room whose existence he was not aware of until long after the fact. The Room with the Shit, long since lacking in excrement, he made sure to douse extra well. As he made his way out of the entry way the last of the oil shining at the bottom of the stairs, he turned and saw Gregory, parked beyond the camaro was a 2009 Vauxhall Corsa and a black government car. He could see that there were two people inside of Greg’s ride (likely John and Sherlock) and he knew Anthea was in the third.

“Why is everyone just sitting there?”

“They weren’t sure they would be welcome.”

“Well, they’re already here.”

“Yes, but…” this was hardly something one just intruded upon.

“I know.” Mycroft turned back to the bunker. Not one drop of oil had gotten on his suit. He takes the water and douses the surrounding plant life (it had just rained, so this was a bit unnecessary) in it until there’s nothing left. He retrieved his umbrella. It would be pouring soon. Standing a couple of feet from the entrance to his own personal hell, he pulled a box of matches from the inside of his jacket.

The first drops started to fall.

He lit a little stick.

The rain got heavier. The stick burned.

He threw it in. The tiny flame lit grew.

How Ironic, that fire always destroys and sometimes it builds. Right now, peace is being constructed in his chest. He was where Uncle Rudy was at when he first met Mycroft Holmes. He was the head of the family, who would be childless, and so would need to choose an heir from among his relations.

All lives end. Everyone hates him.

All hearts are broken. His mum never wants to talk to him; he’s all but excommunicated.

Caring is not an advantage, and yet it is his job. He made the difficult decisions.

He did the truly horrible things. The family was obliged to listen. Ruin would come if they did not. He was hated. He was feared. He was Mycroft Holmes.

He started to laugh, because isn’t it all funny, how things work out every time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys so I've never done this before but I'm going to recommend you all read Gail Carrier's The Parasol Protectorate Series. I just finished it and it's amazing and Carriger is writer goals and I am working on my first fic for the fandom!


	11. Epilogue: Present Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand we're done!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST CHAPTER!!!

Mycroft is old- 71, and he thinks he has the last laugh. But he doesn’t want it. Not anymore. He sits at the head of the table, fingering the handle of his umbrella- a newer model than what he’d had last year. His eyes, rheumy and blurred, are unfocused.

“Uncle, you ought to eat something,” says a soft voice. He hears the clink of a teacup and saucer. She’s normally quieter than this, but she knows that Mycroft is distracted, that doing something like setting the tea down without making noise might just scare the shit out of him.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Tea?” she asks, hopeful.

“I don’t know,” he answers, defeated.

“Today’s going to be long. You ought to be ready for it.”

“I am.”

“You aren’t.” says a new voice from the doorway. (all the door ways have been refurbished within the last year. He thinks Gregory would like it.)

“Don’t deduce me now.” Mycroft snaps. He can hear a sigh (all he does is hear, now) somewhere to his left. It’s accompanied by the drag of chair legs on tile, still louder than it ought to be, and by the careful settling of weight.

“I’m not, brother. There are things I cannot help but see.”

“You should be home,” Mycroft points out in an attempt to distract. He’s thinking about Sherlock’s hands, how they’d gained a plain silver band some years back. It is just like the gold one on a small, flat chain under Mycroft’s shirt.

“It’s not home anymore.” Right. John is dead. He forgot.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because it seems like it’s what one ought to say when one’s brother’s husband passes.

“Aren’t we all?” Another teacup is set down.  There is silence as the Sherlock and Mycroft try to drink. It seems pointless, now.

“It’s time to go,” Rosie says after half an hour passes. She sounds defeated. Mycroft tries to remember why. Ah! His brother is Rosie’s only living parent, and he is too sad to drink tea. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, because that seems like the right thing to do. 

“A moment, Rosamund?” Mycroft asks.

“Yes.” Mycroft knows they have more time. He knows they have at least a few minutes. 

“We ought to put her out of our misery,” he says to Sherlock.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? It’s clear you’re losing the ability to take care of yourself. Sooner or later they’re… they’re going to put us both on  _ hospice _ . She’s not going to move on, either. Not until you make her.”

“Because she wouldn’t believe me if I faked a heart attack.”

“So?”

“The chances of her committing suicide increase dramatically if I do it.”

“But what good are we to her now? She has that… what’s the word? Friend of her’s now. She’s got a sizable inheritance on our deaths. There has got to be something better than waiting to die like this.”

“I’ll… I’ll think about it. For now, it really is time to go.” 

An hour later, Mycroft is stepping out of one of Anthea’s cars, his cane swinging back in forth in measured sweeps. Sherlock follows, his own cane helping him to stay upright. The both of them are freshly medicated, and, though neither of them have actually eaten anything (it’s getting too hard, now), they are, in fact, ready for this.

The gathering is not small; the man of honor is friendly, and a great many people love him. None like Mycroft, but still. It is the exact opposite of their wedding, probably. Mycroft gets the feeling it is.

The days is cold, so the Holmes brothers are wrapped in their greatcoats and scarves and hats. The two sit next to Rosie, waiting.

“We are gathered here today to honor Gregory Tobias Lestrade…”

 

…

 

Much, much later, when the time is more like one in the morning than in the afternoon, when Mycroft returned home, the retiree is sitting up in bed, waiting. He heard something a little bit ago. He forgets what it was, but he didn’t do anything about it. He’s sure there’s a reason.

The door does not make a sound, but Mycroft speaks anyways.

“I’m not going to fight you, but do make it quick. I have someone I’m going to meet.” He doesn’t know if that one is true or not.

“Mycroft Holmes. The man. The myth. The widower.”

“Were you there?”

“Right behind you.”

“I’m surprised Sherlock didn’t see you.”

“He doesn’t want to see anymore. He’s like you in that regard. Besides, he knows what you want. You told him yourself just this morning.”

“Are you going to kill him too?”

“Yeah. You Holmes boys always know too much. I got your sister, too.”

“How?”

“Well, they were just waiting for her to die. All it took was the right, chemical in the right food and… well, you know the rest.”

“How are you going to do me?”

“That’s a surprise. Don’t you want to know who I am?” Does he?

“Does it matter?”

“No, but I wanted to say something to you before I leave.”

“What is it?”

“My father wants to go, too. He’s so sad all the time, now, it’s a wonder he hasn’t gone already. You know he tried.”

“Why?”

“Cause he got sick of watching you three running about, having all your fun.”

“It’s not fun.”

“Oh, I know, but I think he’d like to hear that I did what he could not. What his love could not.”

“Who are you?” Mycroft finally says. He thinks he just needs to know one more thing to make this make sense.

“Don’t you know?”

“No.”

“Mikey. Mikey Moran.”

“Heh. Should have seen that one.” Who else would stop to chat? None but Sherlock himself, he supposes.

“What happens to you, when you’re done?”

“I’m gonna tell him, and then I’m going to kill him too, because he’s just as tired as you are. All you old men are just so tired.”

“We are, aren’t we.”

“You know what I’m going to do after that?”

“What?”

“Carry on, of course.”

“Well, goodbye then.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft Holmes.” A hand, big and rough, pulls the covers back and takes his foot. He feels the prick of the needle, the pain of something being inserted. He closes his eyes as he hears the door shut. He slides his hand under his pillow to grip his life alert necklace. Sometime later, he squeezes, knowing full well that it’s too late.

In the morning, Anthea will get the entire conversation, already recorded. The Holmes will be gone, but Rosamund- lovely Rosamund, who was taught everything she could be, and was so much better than any of them, would get her inheritance, that young men would be disposed of. 

Life would go on.

Life would always go on.

Mycroft’s heart ceases, and he panics. He’s going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think, okay?


End file.
